


What Lives in the Darkness?

by JustAGirl24



Series: Art Therapy [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Painting, Rehabilitation, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:04:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5260136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Brienne makes her slow way in the darkness, the torch held aloft. “What lives here, Jaime? What lives in the darkness?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>We learn a little bit more about what has brought Jaime to Tarth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Lives in the Darkness?

Jaime is cold. Naked. Hunger gnaws at him, though he barely notices anymore—it has been his companion for longer than he can recall. He pulls the thin blanket—hardly more than a sheet—tight around his shoulders. His head lolls forward, his chin touching his chest. He wonders how many days have passed. It is impossible to keep track in this cell, which is only rarely lit by a weak gray light. He shifts against the bricks, wincing as the rough blanket abrades the tender, freshly-lashed skin of his back. He tries to go away in his mind, to think of Cersei. He remembers the simple joy of her fingers in his hair, her cunt against his mouth, the breathless noises she panted in his ear…

“I don’t like this place,” a voice says in the darkness. Jaime starts, whipping around to face the voice, fists balling in the edges of his blanket. A silvery-blue glow forms in the air before him, and he is able to see that it comes from a torch, which leaves streaks of light in its wake. In the light, he can see that it is Brienne sitting next to him, naked as well, clutching the torch in her broad hand. The cold, dank air doesn’t seem to bother her.

“I’m not fond of it myself,” he rasps. Brienne rises to her feet before him, tall and strong as he has remembered, yet she seems to have more of a woman’s shape. Jaime scrambles to his feet, letting the thin blanket fall to the ground in the suddenly-warm air.

The cell stretches and warps and then becomes a hall. Brienne makes her slow way in the darkness, the torch held aloft. “What lives here, Jaime? What lives in the darkness?”

“Doom,” he tries to say, but his tongue fills his mouth and he cannot speak.

“Only doom,” agrees a voice behind him—a voice that wasn’t there before.

Jaime whirls, glimpsing cold, pale eyes and a sick, almost inhuman smile, a smile that has haunted his waking and sleeping mind for his whole life, it seems. He tries to scream, tries to run to Brienne—she will help him escape, he _knows_ she will—but when he turns, she is no longer in the hallway. It is plunged into darkness without her light. He tries to run, to escape the monster behind him, but his feet refuse to move. He punches and flails, he bares his teeth, he is _ready,_ ready as he’ll ever be. _He will take a piece of this sick bastard with him. He will—_

“Mr. Lannister.” It is Brienne’s voice, spilling from the mouth of his tormenter. “Mr. Lannister, _wake up.”_

But Jaime cannot stop screaming, he cannot stop his fists from reaching for the man’s throat. _“Ramsay,”_ he is finally able to growl. He cannot return to the cell. He knows the man will be there, waiting with his knives, waiting to flay the skin from his bones, his muscles, his tendons, and he _cannot—_

 _“Jaime!”_ Brienne’s voice bellows at him, and he awakens to the startling brightness of his seaside room on the isle of Tarth. His heart is racing, his chest is heaving as adrenaline courses through him. The ugly, broad, freckled face of Brienne Tarth hovers over him, but all he can see is her astonishing blue eyes, so warm and so different from the cold, pale gaze of his dream. With a shudder of horror, he sees that his hand is fisted in the collar of her shirt. He recoils as though he has been burned. Combined with the fresh memories of his time in Harrenhal, he is left with a sick feeling in his stomach. For a moment, he fears he will vomit.

“Mr. Lannister?” she carefully says, standing up straight and adjusting her shirt.

The sick feeling intensifies. “Jaime,” he rasps out. “My name is Jaime.”

Brienne nods. “Jaime,” she finally says, hesitation written on her face, clear as the freckles across her nose. Her gaze doesn’t leave his, calm and steady. His heart is slowing, his breathing is less ragged. “Gilly,” she says.

Jaime is confused—who is she talking to? It is then that he sees one of his usual nurses, a dark-haired, petite girl. He thinks he might have made her cry once.

She is holding a syringe, half-full of a clear liquid.

He realizes it is for him. _“No!”_ he screams—or tries to, but it comes out more like a gasp. He shakes his head back and forth violently, his feet and hand scrabbling for purchase on the slick bedsheets, trying to push his body away from the needle.

“Jaime, look at me.”

He doesn’t _want_ to want to look at her, to listen to her voice, but his eyes find hers anyway.

She is placid as ever. “Gilly, I think you can put that away.” He doesn’t know how she makes it sound like both a suggestion and a command.

The nurse—Gilly—looks confused. “But Doctor Sam said—”

“I know what he said. But I was just coming to get Mr. Lannister for his art therapy session.” Her eyes turn steely, her lips press into a thin line. “You’re ready now, Mr. Lannister?”

His answer is instant. “Yes.” He waits a beat. _“Jaime.”_

Brienne smiles at that, her eyes brightening. “He’ll be fine without it, Gilly.”

Jaime is relieved when the girl bobs her head and leaves, taking the syringe with her. After a few tense moments where he wonders if Gilly will change her mind and come back, Jaime puts his feet on the ground. _Art therapy,_ Brienne had said. She takes a few steps and motions to him from the doorway. He follows on shaky legs.

The sunlight is painfully bright on the terrace, which is deserted except for the two of them. Brienne points at the same stool he sat at the last time he was here. Jaime sits. There is a canvas waiting on his easel.

“Well,” she says briskly, pointing to a large box nearby. “We’ve been working with acrylics the past few days. It’s a little early yet for class, but why don’t you get started anyway?”

He appreciates that she doesn’t comment on his absence since his first visit almost a week before. And he supposes there is no reason not to get started. It might help him ignore how jittery he still is. He paws through the box, pulling out several tubes of paint and returning to his stool.

Jaime paints. He loses track of time, hardly noticing the other residents trickling into the room, the low murmur of Brienne’s voice as she greets each one.

He works in blue, losing himself in waves of cobalt and indigo, turquoise and cornflower. He tells himself it is because it is a calming sort of color. It reminds him of the waters surrounding Tarth. It is soothing. He does not think about the time he spent searching through the tubes of acrylics for a precise shade of sapphire. He does not think about how it matches Brienne’s eyes exactly.

It is only blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Mikki is such an amazing beta. I'm so lucky to have her. :D
> 
> Any comments or constructive criticism are most welcome on this series especially. :)


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